From Here to Eternity
by Nikolai-Tesla
Summary: Nikola Tesla glared into the darkness as he sniffed haughtily and dusted off his suit jacket. Who could have predicted that that simple, shiny-headed murderer would show up in the nick of time, to steal his Helen from him yet again?
1. Part 1

**I've found myself fascinated and enamored with Nikola Tesla and felt the need to start this story. It's turning out to be rather short, but it is an introspective character study rather than plot driven piece. I hope you enjoy it! :)**

**I, like all writers, would love your feedback!! :D Reviewers will be given big Tesla hugs and kisses!**

**(Sadly, as you all know, neither Nikola-the-scientist nor Nikola-the-vampire belongs to me.)**

* * *

It wasn't as if he had done anything wrong. On the contrary, he had given those Cabal agents a chance to be a part of something phenomenal, more important than they could have ever imagined. Their insignificant mortal existence had been destroyed so easily, snuffed out like a candle in a howling storm. But he had brought them back to life, even if it had left them unintelligible and brain dead. Better to blindly follow him, to change to world, than to lie decomposing, lost forever in the depths of a Roman catacomb. He had thought it was a good plan; sure, it was no alternating current, but it bore his typical hallmark of genius, was positively _reeking_ of it. No, it had not been his best plan, but who could have guessed it would go so horribly wrong?

From his thoroughly undignified position- flat on his back on the cold dirt floor- Nikola Tesla glared into the darkness as he sniffed haughtily and dusted off his suit jacket. Who could have predicted that that simple, shiny-headed murderer would show up in the nick of time, to steal his Helen from him yet again? It made no sense. _John Druitt_, he practically spat, the name sticking in his throat like acerbic bile. _What could she possibly see in him?_ Sure the man was tall, strong, and clearly knew how to make an entrance, but he was _weak_. So disgustingly weak. He squandered his abilities and talents like so many cheap parlor tricks. Nikola, on the other hand, had style, _ambition_. Under his watchful eye, the world's most intelligent, most powerful race could once again be restored to its former glory, forever occluding the pinnacle of mere human achievement from here to eternity.

This was just the start. Druitt had no idea what he was up against. If he thought a fist through the gut, extraordinary painful though it may be, could stop Nikola Tesla, he was sorely mistaken.

He could already feel his strength slowly returning to him; the pulsing life force that had trickled over the pressed fabric of his already ruined suit and mingled with the dank, russet sediment on the catacomb floor was becoming a mere annoyance. Though still weak and injured- a drill through the chest, three bullet holes, and a gaping abdomen wound could do that to a person, even one who possessed his unique abilities- Nikola pushed himself up off the floor, clutching at his tattered garments. With a slight, keening groan of pain, barely audible through clenched teeth, he placed a supporting hand on the wall and started to limp down the corridor.

Stopping to rest only when it proved absolutely necessary, he trudged his way down passageway after passageway. He tried to ignore the way his limbs felt numb and heavy and the tunnels spun languidly around him. He briefly closed his eyes and brushed chilling sweat off his already pallid skin. As much as he hated feeling weak and helpless, he smiled smugly to himself for he knew it would not last long. Though it would take him quite some time to recover from this particular injury, before long he would be back at full strength, more determined than ever to see his ancestors reborn.

In the meantime he would need to feed, he would need to rest, but, most importantly, he would need to plan. Nikola Tesla squared his shoulders, gritted his teeth against the pain, and slunk off into the darkness, preparing to lick his wounds and bide his time, waiting for the moment when he could once again show the world what true genius was.


	2. Part 2

Recovering from wounds as critical as those Nikola had sustained was no easy task. It did, however, afford him plenty of time to consider what had gone wrong. If there was one thing he had learned in over a century of friendship with Helen Magnus it was that, where she went, trouble surely followed. He supposed he should have known as soon as he saw her –_had it really only been three hours since they had been reunited?_- that something interesting was bound to happen. He had been so distracted, so overwhelmed by a rush of old, half-buried emotions, that he had been unable to devote all of his concentration to avoiding the Cabal. As it stood, his tenuous grasp on any reality that did not revolve around Helen had faltered and then failed entirely, leaving him, once again, gravely injured and alone.

He had slipped, almost too easily for his comfort, back into old habits, goading Helen into his flirtatious embrace only to have her ripped cruelly away. He had seen the way she looked at him when he entered the lecture hall upstairs. Those who did not know her as well as he might not have seen the hint of a smile in her slightly flustered expression. She still cared about him, as much as she had when she had faked his death.

Unprepared as he was for the sudden onslaught of resurfacing emotions upon seeing her again, he could not bear to stay in the lecture hall for more than a few seconds. It had been long enough, however, to hear the unnecessarily long pause in her lecture and to see the slightest tinge of pink color her cheeks. He left the room hoping to compose himself but was left breathless yet again at the sight of her striding quickly through the double doors into the corridor. He had panicked, true to form, hiding his sincerity with glib jokes and falsely sarcastic overtures just as he had done at Oxford so many years before. He had, of course, not been lying after all when he said he loved her.

He could still vividly remember, as if it were yesterday, how she had looked the day he first saw her in the dimly lit, cavernous classroom at Oxford: her long, fair hair, pinned back almost haphazardly; the low, scooping neckline of her dress; the tight-fitting bodice, accentuating her feminine figure; the unsystematically laced ribbons pulling too tightly here and coming untied there. She seemed altogether unconcerned with appearance, her subtle, striking beauty entirely natural. He had been stuck by her little, entirely unselfconscious gestures. Whenever she wrote, she would purse her lips in thought after licking the nib of her pen. He remembered, almost foolishly, hoping that one day that tiny scratch of nib on parchment would be directed toward him, that he would feel the glorious softness of her hand on his as she passed him a note in her delicate scrawl.

She had been so young, so naïve, and yet so headstrong. He had hoped things would have been different this time, that she would have listened to him, but she was still as obstinate as ever, firm in her resolve. Just as it had been, it was so irritating and yet so incredibly sexy.

Though Nikola was an extraordinary being, he had always found himself overshadowed, lost in the crowd. Even among The Five, he was too subdued, too quiet to take the lead on any pressing matters. He was smart, remarkably so, and he knew it. The few friends he managed to attract were almost always driven away by his arrogance and his self-importance. Helen, however, had always been different.

Helen had managed to see what no one else had, that behind his egocentric façade was a gentle, caring young man. She was particularly drawn to the way his elegant hands would lovingly ghost over all he handled, his touch as soft and tender as if he were delicately stroking a baby bird. Some say that animals are a better judge of character than humans and, even if people were not naturally attracted to him, animals certainly were. It was rare to see him around the grounds without some type of creature shadowing him. Flocks of birds would alight on the bench he occupied, staying perched alongside him for hours on end. Once Helen swore she saw him affectionately whispering to a fox, but, when she looked again, he was completely alone.

While inwardly gentle, Nikola had always had a problem forming meaningful connections with others. When he would begin to get close to someone, he would, without fail, push them away. He was outwardly impetuous and almost cruel, a fact that The Five- excluding Helen- had exploited regularly.

John Druitt had undoubtedly been the worst of the lot. His own affection for Helen had driven him to a kind of subconscious loathing of Nikola which manifested itself in typically juvenile ways. Teasing, taunting, and the occasional practical joke were among his rather limited repertoire, though he always played the angel as soon as Helen directed her attention to him.

Nikola, equally jealous of John, ignored the teasing, pretended it did not bother him when, inside he was quietly shaking with rage. It wasn't that he cared what the tall, lanky man thought, it was that he worried that Helen would gradually start to agree with John, abandoning Nikola just as so many others had before.

But Helen mostly ignored their feud, only involving herself when there seemed to be no alternative. It wasn't in her to pick sides, and she didn't want to lose either of them.

Her indecision almost made it harder for Nikola. How was he supposed to share her with a petty _fool_ like Druitt? He had felt that it might have been better if she had just chosen John and left him alone for good. It was only recently that he had begun to realize how wrong he had been.

It was Helen who had saved him a lifetime ago at Oxford, and she had unwittingly saved him now. Seeing her with John had only solidified his resolve, giving him the strength to do what he now knew had to be done.


	3. Part 3

The ancient, expansive ruins were all that were left of the greatest civilization the world had known. They stretched as far as the eye could see, both awesome and vaguely terrifying. Though he had been there dozens of times before, the sight still sent a small shiver down Nikola's spine. He could almost feel a tingle of electricity, contained within the city's labyrinthine interior; he could very nearly taste it. The rush that came from simply breathing the air, better than that of any drug or liquor, made the small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He closed his eyes, simply reveling in the intangible gloriousness his ancestors had left behind.

Occasionally, though so seldomly the feeling was nearly irrelevant to him, Nikola experienced regret. Once in a blue moon his breath would catch as he was subjected to a small pang of sadness, so fleeting he often wondered if he had felt it at all. More often, he wondered if it had all been worth it, if he had sacrificed a relatively normal life for the right reasons. He tried to tell himself he had gotten involved with The Five for purely empirical motives, fervently insisting that Helen had had nothing to do with his decision. He was a scientist, after all. That was all he cared about: knowledge, information, enlightenment… and her.

No matter how often he tried to deny it, running through convoluted scenarios in his mind to try to change the outcome, it always, _always_ came back to her. She _had_ been his reason for his involvement with The Five, it had always been her. The rest of them were power hungry fools, but she had been different. So different that Nikola had often wondered if she wasn't simply some greater being, more intelligent, more compassionate than anyone he had ever known.

The tingle he had felt as he laid his long, slender fingers on her arm, preparing her for the injection of source blood which would irrevocably change their lives, that tingle had been the most remarkable feeling he would ever experience: part fear, part excitement, and part… love.

_Love?_ Did he truly understand the meaning of the word? He often wondered to himself, questioning the very foundation of all he believed. Love was about hope and trust, but, more importantly, it was about sacrifice, being ready to give up _everything_ for the person he loved.

Nikola had been ready to make that sacrifice. For him, the source blood had not been about power at all. How could he have known what it would do to him? He could never have imagined that it would change a relatively quiet, brooding boy into a bloodthirsty monster. But that, like so much else in his life, was all in the past. Nikola had an understated control that the others simply did not possess. John had become the raving lunatic, not Nikola, not the one who had sacrificed for love.

There was no denying, though, the blood _had_ changed Nikola. The gentle, already withdrawn boy retreated into the shadows, nearly becoming one himself. He reduced communication with others to the bare minimum, wincing slightly every time someone approached him too rapidly or reached out as if to touch him. Where he once had been pushy and arrogant, he became almost unbearable, lashing out violently when questioned. His physical transformation was just as worrisome. His canines lengthened and pointed unnaturally, his already pale skin becoming nearly translucent. Most troublesome of all, though, were his eyes. Heartbreakingly gentle and serene blue eyes became cold, dark, emotionless. His eyes were what had hurt Helen most of all.

In retrospect, Nikola had barely realized he was changing. He could not feel the alterations himself, but he could certainly see them in Helen's face.

Gradually, he had become even more reticent, completely isolating himself in his lab. His nearly frenzied motions were barely visible, his visage reduced to a blur through a stained glass window. Helen could not help but wonder whom he was trying to protect. Had his self-induced isolation been for their safety, or for his own?

Helen had never forgiven herself for his transformation. She knew, logically, that the gene had already been a part of his DNA, the blood of the species _sanguine vampiris_ coursing, latent, through his veins. Not one of them could have predicted his violent reaction, for the species had died out hundreds of years previously. Helen knew this and yet the loss of the young man she had known weighed heavily on her conscience. Had it not been for his love of her and his concern for her safety, she would still have Nikola- _her_ Nikola- just as he had been.

Helen maintained she had faked his death in order for his scientific work to continue unhindered, but Nikola knew there was more to it than that. She felt guilty. And _afraid_. Afraid to face him and the monster he had become. His funeral, while a relatively pleasant affair, had been Helen's only chance to mourn over the man she had loved and lost so many years ago.

Nikola's transformations became manageable through medication, more so than he could have hoped. No longer was he permanently a monster, but the danger was always there, lurking just beneath the surface. How could he expect Helen to trust him then, when he was liable to transform whenever angered, putting her in jeopardy? The medication, coupled with Nikola's firm resolve, allowed him to pretend to be normal, but he knew it simply was not the same.

When plagued by doubts about the life he could have led with Helen, he turned to Bhalasaam. The ancient city, though in disrepair, reminded him of a legacy he _could_ fulfill. It fell to him to rebuild the civilization, and rebuild it he would, stronger, more powerful, and altogether greater than anything his ancestors could have possibly imagined.

Opening his eyes and turning on his heel, Nikola Tesla strode purposefully toward the ruins. There was no way he could _not_ succeed. He was an immortal genius, after all.


	4. Part 4

The labyrinth was even more striking than the exterior, the sound of each footfall, each hasty inhalation echoing up and down the dark, yawning tunnels. It seemed hard to believe that the empty passageways had once housed so much more than the hidden secrets of a lost civilization. But Nikola Tesla _did_ believe. He could not only imagine an entire city of vampires, he felt akin to the former residents, the blood of the species boiling and raging through his veins the very moment he laid eyes on Bhalasaam.

The strange, almost painful tingling he felt upon entering did not even compare to what he had experienced the first time he set foot in the ruins. His reaction had been so terrifying, so severe, he had been sure he was dying. There was not enough air, not _nearly_ enough air in the entire world to fill his lungs. Gasping, he had scrabbled with the collar of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, even tearing a small hole in the clean, pressed fabric. He shook violently- with chills? Fear?- the visceral reaction to the city nearly sending him to his knees. With a small gasp of pain he had brought his hand to his mouth and, when he pulled it back, was surprised to find it sticky with blood. The tacky liquid had filled his mouth as his canines, sharp as tiny daggers, cut into his gums and lips. He had heard the electricity crackling through the air though the lamps were not lit, mingling with his blood and infusing it with pure energy. His eyes had clouded over, but then he had seen, more clearly than ever, the extent of the labyrinth, his jet black eyes practically slicing through the darkness of the tunnel.

It wasn't the transformation that had particularly bothered him- he had grown used to his vampiric form many years before- it was the fact that he had lost control for the first time in decades that terrified and chilled him. And the bloodlust, the desire to find a mortal, _any_ mortal, and drain it dry, leaving an empty husk of a person in its place, scared him more than he would ever admit. He had sworn never to drink human blood and would keep that promise, would _never_ stoop to John's level. He, unlike his erstwhile rival, thought human life was valuable and would treat it as such. The burning need was contrary to his very principles and needed to be neutralized. Slightly doubled over, he had forced his rational side to take control of the situation and compel his legs to get him as far away from the ruins as possible.

Once outside, he had stumbled over to a raised patch of grass, overwhelmed with frustration. His desire to empathize with his ancestors, to be as close to them as possible, had made him lose focus. His carefully controlled demons had broken free from their prison, manifesting themselves in ways stronger than he could ever remember. He had felt paralyzed, trapped, no matter which direction he turned; he was stuck between the desire to run away from Bhalasaam forever and the urgent need to immediately return, to glean as much information as he could about the species _sanguine vampiris_.

On subsequent visits, the disgusting desire for human blood had not been nearly as overwhelming, eventually fading away completely. Occasionally, though, on days when the wind was strong, dust swirling around him and the smell of electricity in the air, his eyes might briefly turn to pools of ink before fading quickly to blue, as if it had never happened at all.

Nikola blinked quickly, letting his eyes adjust further to the darkness of the tunnel before coming to rest on one of the labyrinth's many lanterns. In a familiar, almost loving gesture, he reached up, wrapping his fingers around the bottom of the light. Imbued with the power of his ancestors, the lanterns crackled to life, sending a trail of light slinking down the dank hallway.

Though he had scoured the labyrinth many times before, he simply had not been looking with the proper attitude. Finally, the time had come when he realized that he alone could give rise to a new generation of vampires and show the world- most specifically Helen- just how intelligent and noble he truly was.

Squinting thoughtfully against the dim light flooding the tunnel, he thought back to what he could remember about Helen's father. Gregory had been a practical, methodical man with a love of symbolism. No doubt Nikola's quest would need to begin in the heart of the labyrinth, for both logical and symbolic reasons.

Systematically, Nikola proceeded through the tunnels. Though the labyrinth was undoubtedly gigantic, his previous experiences in Bhalasaam and his superior intelligence served him well. In a matter of hours he found his way to the core of the city, languidly picking his way through the blackness. Unlike before, he was in no hurry to escape from the ruins. On the contrary, his excitement seemed to increase with every step, a kind of magnetic influence drawing him ever nearer to a large table in the center of the chamber.

_Roman numerals around the edges, what could they possibly mean?_ Momentarily stumped, Nikola ran a slightly impatient finger over his smooth, full lips. Suddenly he broke out in a smug half smile, his pointed teeth flashing in the semi-darkness.

His love for Helen, while sometimes a weakness, proved to be his strength. At school he had hung on her every word, occasionally even copying them down into a notebook in his tidy, restrained script. He was sure she had mentioned numbers in relation to her father only once, his eyes unable to leave her rosy lips as she had recited her mother's birthday. He had relished every gorgeous pout and slight smile that accompanied the numbers, calling upon the memory as he pressed the correct numerals around the table's edge.

As soon as his delicate fingers lifted off of the six, a slight hiss of machinery and a rattling movement in the center of the table caused his eyes to glint feverishly. He reached out a tentative hand, hovering over the newly formed chamber on the table before plunging it inside. As his fingers clutched the parchment scroll within, he very nearly sighed in contentment. The source blood was so close he could almost taste it. Once it was his, there would be nothing he could not accomplish.


	5. Part 5

The map, if that's what it was, felt crisp and fragile under his fingertips, almost as if it were liable to crumble and disintegrate at any second. Closing his eyes and tilting his head to one side, Nikola breathed in its scent. It smelled of lavender, and gin, and just a hint of cloves, but, more importantly, it smelled of Helen. Ever so slightly- perhaps undetectable to the nose of a mere human- but undeniably, after all those years, it smelled of her.

His knowledge of Latin, limited but firmly founded, would certainly prove itself useful. How often had he sat with Helen in one of Oxford's expansive libraries, watching her study the language or translate a text? Like father, like daughter, she had tried so hard to impress Gregory with her intellectual pursuits. Seated at a table by the window, their hands almost absently intertwined, he had leaned on his elbow, alternately dozing off and watching her, rapt, as she whispered the dead language as if it had been expressly written for her.

The map was white and pristine, as if it had not been touched since Gregory had sealed it away inside the city. He doubted that it had. Few people had his tenacity which, coupled with his intimate knowledge of the Magnus family, had allowed him to proceed to that crucial point of his quest. He was inextricably linked to Helen and always would be, a fact which both terrified and delighted him. It was, he had admitted to himself on many occasions, a torturously tantalizing prospect.

If he remembered correctly, and he was betting that he did, Gregory's map said he would need the others. He winced slightly, unable to face that prospect. The great Nikola Tesla needed no one, a fact that he had proved quite effectively over the past sixty years. No, he would try to acquire the blood on his own, even if it killed him. And he was very, _very_ hard to kill.

His eyes drifted to a chamber on the map, labeled with his own name, right next to Helen's. Had Gregory intended that their tests lay together forever, permanently affixed to one another? Had he, like Nikola, realized that John was simply the wrong man for Helen, that he could not possibly love her the way that Nikola did? He would never know for sure, but he could hope. And hope, he did, focusing on Helen in the way a drowning man pines for the comfort of dry, firm land. This hope intensified his resolve, giving him the strength to travel deeper into the labyrinth in search of his personal test.

The tunnels were cold, nearly freezing, a minor inconvenience for Nikola. The temperature did, however, serve to increase the electrical current running through the labyrinth. He could feel it coursing underneath his feet, pulsating through the damp, cold ground in a perfect reflection of the blood in his veins. The beating of his pulse quickened to match that of the electricity that had been lying dormant, waiting for him alone.

As he approached the chamber that had been marked for his test, he thought he could feel the amperage of the current increase ever so slightly. Glancing down the strange tunnel on the far side of the chamber, he shivered with dread, though he couldn't be certain why. It was completely unlike the other tunnels he had seen in the labyrinth thus far, ribbed and faceted and altogether formidable, all harsh concrete and sharp angles. The sign that hung above the tunnel, green with the patina of aged bronze, bore the words _amplus navitas_, another foreboding sign. While it was true that Nikola was a master of electricity, the Latin phrase for "ample energy" did little to comfort him.

He could see the pedestal, housing an ornate key, clearly from his vantage point; it could not be more than six or seven yards away. But he had known Gregory, and he would not have made it easy to retrieve. The task was undoubtedly deceptively simple, attempting to lure Nikola into a false sense of security. He paced restlessly around the chamber, unwilling to venture into the tunnel but unable simply to walk away from it. He had come so far and was not about to let fear cloud his judgment.

Even at school, Nikola had not been one to give up. He had always fought tooth and nail to protect himself and his interests. He became an expert at verbal sparring in order to defend his intellectual pursuits from potential naysayers. This talent, a sort of quiet determination, was what had initially attracted the attentions of the other members of The Five in the first place. Coupled with his immense intelligence, this refusal to give up had saved his life so many times in the past and had provided him with a future. The other boys had been skeptical when Helen had introduced Nikola, off put by his slightly abrasive personality and perhaps a little jealous of his superior intellect. John Druitt had felt, quite obviously, threatened by the forceful young man from the moment they had met. It had taken some convincing to include Nikola in their devices, but, once they had seen him in action, they could not deny that he was a valuable asset. Undoubtedly, though never communicated to one another, the boys recognized that it would be much preferable to have Nikola as an ally than as an enemy. They had sensed that a dangerous strength lay deep within him, waiting for the moment when it could finally be released.

Facing the tunnel once more, Nikola quickly scrubbed his hands roughly over his face and cleared his throat. For appearance's sake- though there was no one there apart from himself- he thrust his hands into the pockets of his long, black jacket in order to hide their slight but unmistakable trembling.

Further deliberation was a weakness he simply could no longer afford. The source blood would be worth whatever torture Gregory had planned for him. He was reluctant but determined; with his perfectly groomed eyebrows slightly furrowed in a miniscule grimace- the only thing belying his outwardly calm demeanor- he began to stride forward into the tunnel.


	6. Part 6

It was agony, greater than he had ever experienced in his exceptionally long life. The minute he stepped into the tunnel, the massive electromagnetic current not only shocked him but seemed to penetrate straight through to his DNA, trying to rip him apart from the inside. He shook like mad, even beginning to transform, the pain tearing a hoarse cry from his throat as he blinked rapidly either to fight back tears or to fend off the physical transformation that seemed imminent.

After a single step, he could no longer keep his feet, staggering first and then tumbling to the ground. He had to get out of there, _had_ to escape, or the pain would most certainly drive him insane.

There was no way he would be able to crawl through to the adjoining chamber in order to retrieve his key. It simply was impossible. He had to turn around, had to crawl on his belly like a dog to safety. Under normal circumstances, he would have been humiliated as he retreated from the tunnel, ashamed at his weakness. But these were not normal circumstances.

He collapsed just outside of the electromagnetic field, writhing on the cold earth, attempting to quell the pain screaming from every pore of his body. It was infused with his boiling blood, sending agonizing shivers down his spine and through his extremities. He lay there shaking, gasping for breath and trying to forget how powerful he had felt. No one was meant to be that powerful. Power had to be controlled, or the consequences were disastrous. He knew that better than anyone.

For most of his life, Nikola had had the same dream- or was it nightmare?- night after night.

_In the deep, infinite blackness of space, he is alone on a planet far too small for him and his talents. He closes his eyes as he draws energy directly from the earth, reveling in the heady rush of its current. As he feeds off of the earth, it continues to shrink, not withering or dying, just growing ever smaller. Stars and planets rush past him and then revolve, drawn to the electromagnetic field he projects. He stands, wide eyed in awe, watching as he is given the power to manipulate the galaxies. Then, after a long, heartbreaking moment… he smiles. _

Nikola always woke in a cold sweat, gasping for breath and groping blindly for something to hold on to, to reassure himself that he was not so alone. Breathing slowly in an attempt to reduce his speeding heartbeat, he would, with the absent yet fevered demeanor of one possessed, exit the building he occupied and retreat outdoors where he would promptly find the nearest rock or tree, anything related, however tangentially, to the earth. He felt the literal need to touch these objects, to do everything in his power to stay grounded. Power was something that was not to be trifled with. Too much of it and anyone would go insane, too little and they became irrelevant. He would lean against a tree, closing his eyes and burying his hands in the long, cool grass, feeling so connected to the earth and so utterly safe, until the feelings of terror had left him.

From his position on the ground, once again trying to regulate the speed of his pounding heart, Nikola couldn't help but feel the irony of the circumstances, the parallelism between his childhood nightmares and his current situation. The idea of losing control had always terrified him, been his biggest fear for as long as he could remember. Without control he was no one, a shell of a person, all of his previous deeds as irrelevant and impermanent as chalkboard dust on a recently wiped slate.

When he could breath easily again and felt able to stand on legs that were still slightly shaky, Nikola pushed himself up off the ground and turned to face the tunnel once more. He tapped his lips impatiently with a manicured finger, trying to devise a way to get the key that did not involve excruciating agony.

It seemed there was no way around it; in order to retrieve the key, Nikola would undoubtedly have to brave the tunnel. He was afraid, though, so afraid that he would not be able to find the strength. It wasn't so much death he feared, but rather failure.

He breathed deeply a few times and shook out his hands, as if preparing for some great athletic feat. Glaring at the torturous tunnel, he approached it yet again until his nose was almost touching the space where the electromagnetic field would soon appear. Exhaling heavily, he glanced side to side before steeling his resolve and setting his eyes dead ahead, locking them on the image of the key resting ever so delicately on the pedestal opposite him. Standing tall, he entered the tunnel yet again.

This time was worse than the first. Teeth gritted so hard he could taste blood, little crescent moons of the red liquid pooling where his fingernails cut into his clenched fists. He knew that reaching the key was pivotal to his quest and that, without it, he would simply have to leave the ruins empty handed, a fate for which he was not prepared.

He knew that, one day, the source blood would unequivocally be his. It would be his life's work, his magnum opus. His previous inventions and discoveries would pale in comparison to the phenomenal society he would create. He was always, and had always been, waiting, waiting for the woman he loved, waiting to be absolved of the guilt he carried with him, waiting for a chance to prove to himself that he was worthy. He was through with waiting; the source blood would be his key out of the purgatory that was his life.

He really thought he could make it through the tunnel, thought his determination and high threshold for pain would undeniably make him victorious. Nikola Tesla was seldom wrong but this was one of those unusual occurrences.

Just under halfway through the tunnel he couldn't think, he couldn't see, he couldn't even breathe, the pain and the power were so great. He was panicking, eyes roving frantically to find a logical escape but were, ultimately, met with nothing.

He knew it was a problem, knew that, unless he miraculously formulated a plan, this would be the last thing he would ever do. Grasping at straws, he threw himself back out of the tunnel as far as he could. Landing heavily on the threshold between the tunnel and the chamber, body aching from the jarring impact, he sensed that he was momentarily safe. Refusing to believe he had completely failed- he _would_ find another way to get the blood, there was no denying it- he rested his pounding head against the ground as the world finally faded to black.


	7. Part 7

It was cold, unnaturally so for that time of year. It was the kind of harsh cold that bit and scratched, leaving blood red stains in its wake. The few trees that still stood in the area were bare, their vacant limbs coated with a thin layer of slick, crystallizing condensation. In a haze of frost and vapor, Nikola lurked in the shadows by the Old City Sanctuary window, watching silently. His lips were pursed in a slight pout, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, looking much more like a petulant child than the hundred and fifty year old genius that he was.

Back in the ruins of Bhalasaam he had successfully established that, without the others, it would be impossible to gain access to the source blood. Or perhaps "successfully" was entirely the wrong word. He had accomplished so much, had been so close to his goal, but ultimately had failed. And failure did not sit well with him. Rather than admit defeat- to himself as much as to the others- he would wait, biding his time, until _they_ came to _him_.

There were so many things he would never admit. He could never, for example, tell another soul how much he abhorred being alone. As a boy he had been much the same, though in the naiveté and innocence of childhood had more actively pursued the company of others. After his brother's death, he had suffered through a phase where he had been actively clingy, constantly following his mother and sisters around the house or the yard. Eventually he had matured, learning to appreciate the solitude of his room, taking solace in his academics. He had buried himself in his work to disguise his weakness, hiding his fragility behind books and numbers instead of behind other humans.

Even now, as he peered through the Sanctuary window, he longed to be on the other side of the glass, conversing with Helen in the comfort of the warmly lit study. He yearned to cradle her head on his shoulder and stroke her long, raven hair. He knew she needed company as much as he, but she, so similarly, would never admit it. If they weren't both so stubborn, each obstinately refusing to take comfort in the other, he knew that they could be happy together. Sometimes he felt as if he were looking in a mirror, seeing a perfect reflection of himself which he could never touch, never quite feel.

He watched, rapt, as Helen sat at the large cherry desk in the center of the study, no doubt researching new ways to protect her residents. Despite the cold outside, she was bathed in warm light, beams of it practically dripping over her face like heated honey. She looked deep in thought, her brows furrowed and eyes slightly glazed. She absently twirled a strand of curly hair around a finger, an old habit he remembered quite well, one only a handful of people were fortunate and trusted enough to witness.

A tiny part of him that was not dominated by logic secretly hoped that she was thinking of him, that the slight smile playing over her lips was aftermath of the kiss they had shared several days previously. Did she ever consider him, wonder if he had survived John's vicious attack? He had seen the shock and horror on her face when John's fist had burst through his abdomen, had heard the gasp of dismay that came right on the tail of his exhalation of pain. Despite what she had said, she still cared for him; it was undeniable. When he lay awake at night, imagining where she was at that exact moment, was she occupied with the same type of thoughts?

The more rational, cynical part of his brain tried to stem the flow of questions, telling him he was wasting his time, chasing after ghosts that had long since faded to nothing. But the ghosts continually tortured him, their insubstantial forms prodding him and whispering teasingly into his ear. No matter how often he pretended, he knew that as long as he and Helen both lived on this earth he would pine after her, longing for a life he could never know.

Every now and then Helen would tense slightly and his breathing would hitch, thinking she had spotted him prowling outside her window. He needn't have worried, though, as he was practically invisible, fading into the shadows like the specter he had become. The only evidence of his presence was the slightest mist of fog on the windowpane, disappearing with every quick inhalation of cool breath.

He would simply observe, as he had done for so many years. He was a _scientist_, after all. The Sanctuary's inhabitants, particularly Helen, would never know he was there, but it wouldn't matter. He was learning all he needed to know simply by watching, as if they were all variables in one of his more substantial experiments. They were so fragile, as if his interference with their petty lives would destroy them completely.

Helen, John, Watson, and those worthless, insignificant assistants of theirs would show up sooner or later at Bhalasaam, and he would be there waiting. There was no way he would miss the opportunity to retrieve the source blood when he had such remarkable plans for it. His future, Helen's future, the very future of the human race all hung in the balance.

While he hovered at the window, the lost city of Bhalasaam slumbered, waiting for him alone. Who knew more about the ancient ruins than he? His intelligence and knowledge could mean the difference between a successful retrieval of the source blood and another complete and utter failure. With that in mind, he turned away from the window quickly, silently, slipping unseen into the night.


	8. Part 8

Inside it was warm and inviting, smelling vaguely of various minced spices. It was a welcome change of place from the frigid, harsh exterior of the building. Nikola lounged in one of the huge maroon armchairs that occupied the Sanctuary's study, feeling vaguely out of place but trying desperately to fit in. He had always had a sort of easy, natural charm and, when he chose to utilize it, could be quite enchanting. Generally he did not give much thought to such things, not concerning himself with others' perception of him. Of course with Helen, it had always been different.

Helen seemed to have an odd effect on him, alternately flustering and delighting him. She had always brought out a side of him that no one else ever saw, his true nature finally exposed as if it had always been waiting for her to come and expose it. He wasn't sure what it was about her, whether it was her old soul or her gentle, caring nature, but something in him had always connected with her, had _always_ loved her.

A few days before, he could never have imagined that he would be there, a guest in Helen's home, a part of her life once more. For once, he was on the inside looking out, rather than the other way around. He shivered slightly, recalling how cold and empty he had felt watching Helen at her desk the other night. It had been momentarily off putting; she had an entirely new life, new companions, new family, new… everything. But no matter how she changed, she would always be _his_ Helen.

When he had casually strolled up to meet the others in the labyrinth, faking disinterest by examining his elegant fingers, he had seen the apprehension in their eyes. It was clear they had not trusted him, and with good reason. He _had_ planned to double-cross them, take the source blood and run. It wasn't as if Helen's crew needed the blood like he did, and it was just as likely that John would steal it as he. Better to save the life of an entire species, _sanguine vampiris_, than the health of one murderous man. But then Helen, his beautiful Helen, had given him the perfect opportunity to prove himself. Not only could he be responsible for the cure to save all Abnormal-kind, he would also show Helen just how intelligent and magnanimous he really was.

Nikola wasn't a cruel person, despite how he was sometimes perceived by others. Those who did not know him well assumed that he was one dimensional, entirely egomaniacal and bent on world domination. While it was true that he wasn't adverse to fame and power, he genuinely did want peace. If he had it his way, there would be no wars; but he was logical enough to recognize that, without drastic measures, wars would continue to break out. In order for peace to reign, the world would need to be a perfect place. When vampires once again populated the earth, society would have no need to fight, no need to kill others for weapons or for medicine.

John, that fool, didn't know the first thing about peace. As soon as Nikola had approached the others in the labyrinth, John had been openly antagonistic, doing his best to humiliate him. The murderer had tried to kill him before and, given the chance, he would do it again. He did not trust John any further than he could throw him, and he wanted him nowhere near the woman he loved.

At school, John had always underestimated Nikola, falsely assuming the smaller, quieter boy was weak. In class he had mocked him, trying to debase him in front of the professors and other students. Occasionally, when engrossed in his work, Nikola would glance up to see John watching him, practically glaring. He had been under the impression that John was scheming, simply waiting for him to let down his guard so he could make a move. He knew that it was simply the other man's fears, his own inadequacies that made him feel the need to demean him, but that hadn't made it any easier.

Because of their torrid past, Nikola had not been surprised when John had behaved as he did, eyeing him with disdain. Watson had acted differently; he had always been more neutral, refusing to be involved in the feud. His nature, easygoing unless personally insulted, meant that he was not particularly bothered by Nikola's brash personality. His death at Bhalasaam truly had upset Nikola. It had not just been a performance in order to stay in Helen's good graces.

And Helen, _Helen_… it had been hard for Nikola to regain her favor. He had literally risked his life for her. It had taken a death-defying stunt, another agonizingly painful encounter with Gregory's torturous electric tunnel, to earn that tiny, tenuous smile. But she _had_, ultimately, forgiven him. The length of the pause after he accused her of still caring for him had been confirmation enough. With Helen, a moment of speechlessness might as well have been a declaration of love.

It was fascinating to think that he had been able to venture through the tunnel at all. The dramatic improvement from his previous attempts had been nearly unfathomable at the time. When he had stood in the chamber with Helen, he recalled how he had spent a great deal of time unconscious on the floor of that dank, gloomy room. He was not in a hurry to repeat the performance, so he stalled for time, pacing and digressing. Of course Helen had noticed, her concern for him evident in her voice though her face remained impassive in the dim light from the electric lamps.

It had been Helen, naturally, who had given him the strength to face the tunnel- looming like an open, fanged mouth- once again. He had shivered as he glanced down the passageway, his skin already tingling painfully at the prospect of the inevitable infusion of energy. But all it had taken was a firm, confident glance from Helen to strengthen his resolve. He would face the tunnel, even unavoidable death, a thousand times over in order to please her.

Because of Helen, they had all retrieved their keys. Because of her, Nikola had the source blood. Because of her, he lounged comfortably in the expansive study, casually sipping another glass of red wine. He sighed contentedly, feeling truly safe for the first time he could remember.


	9. Part 9

**Before I present you with Part 9, I'd like to take a moment, if I may, to offer an incredible, profound, enormous "thank you" to those of you who have continued to read this story. An even bigger (if possible) "THANK YOU!!!" to those of you who have reviewed, as it is truly for you that I have continued to write this piece. My sincerest gratitude to you all.**

**That being said, I will turn you over to the incredible Mr. Tesla.**

* * *

The laboratory was colder and darker than the other cheerful rooms in the Sanctuary, though it was not at all unpleasant. The chill helped to balance out the heat that radiated off Nikola's body in waves as he practically danced around the room from table to table, his motion, to the unpracticed observer, a complete blur.

Nikola knew that with Ashley unconscious and then… _changed_, Helen would need him more than ever. She kept up a nearly impenetrable façade, outwardly presenting control and strength, no doubt because part of her still believed Ashley could be saved. Once the façade was cracked, her hope crushed, Nikola intended to be there to pick up the pieces. He knew the moment was rapidly approaching- she had become frenzied, almost manic, grasping at straws- and the prospect was intriguing and a little frightening.

To Nikola, Helen was like a black hole, drawing him nearer and nearer to a foreign, unknown territory. Or an eclipse, occluding everything around her, too bright to safely stare at but too beautiful and rare to look away from. He, of course, was so similar, beautiful and terrifying, so strong and yet so utterly alone.

Because he cared so deeply for her, Nikola wanted to help her through the difficult time in whatever ways he could. He had always struggled with compassionate platitudes and caring hugs, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. He panicked whenever he tried to be tender or feeling, brushing off sincerity with glibness and comedy. He longed to wrap his arms tightly around her and stroke her hair as she cried into his shoulder, leaving tiny, salty stains on his pristine suit, but he simply could not convince his brain to listen to his heart. Since the traditional ways of soothing Helen eluded him, he gave her the greatest gift he could- access to his superior intellect- instead.

He also still felt vaguely guilty for threatening her in the catacombs, the thought of hurting her still eating away at him, even months later. He had to prove to her that he hadn't been trying to rule the world, per se; he just knew how a race of vampires could drastically improve society. With access to current technology, science, art, and culture would reach a new all-time high. The advances that could be made would be so remarkable that the invention of radio and electricity would pale in comparison. Every disease could be cured, wars rendered obsolete. The utopian society would be so beautiful, so extraordinary, it would make a person cry.

When the others had finally showed up at Bhalasaam to retrieve the source blood, Nikola had been ready, his smooth, sarcastic charm in full effect. He was prepared to beat John at his own game, be charming, snide, and unemotive. When alone with Helen, his mood had shifted entirely. He had been forceful, sincere, and earnest, genuinely smiling and caring. When the large stone door had slid shut behind Helen after she had discovered her test, his shout to her had been so utterly _real_ that she could very nearly forgive him for his brash, juvenile demeanor when confronting John.

Around Helen, Nikola could be himself. Or as close to himself as he could be those days. They had so easily slipped back into old patterns from nearly a century before. And though Helen would never admit it, she genuinely enjoyed having Nikola around the Sanctuary. His outwardly impatient and brazen demeanor made her smile, and he looked so natural- in her armchair, surrounded by books, or in "his" lab, commanding the situation- that it was as if he had always been there. In fact, The Five, with Will and Clara replacing Watson and Nigel, had _all_ fallen back on old habits, Nikola easily- and _surprisingly_- integrating into the team. Everyone had known that it was his love for Helen and his concern for her safety that had overshadowed his other instinctive reactions, and they were grateful for his help during such a difficult and trying time.

His intelligence and scientific knowledge were obviously assets but his more secreted, covert gestures were equally appreciated. When Helen requested that he design a device that would merely stop "Ashley" and the other hybrid warriors, he had unquestioningly humored her. He knew it would never work; they had recuperative abilities that rivaled, perhaps even surpassed, his own, after all. Electromagnetic energy straight from the earth hadn't killed him, so it was obvious the weapon would have to be incredibly powerful to stop them. He knew that anything less than a fatal blow would simply faze them, no doubt angering them in the process. He also knew that Helen would have to come to terms with that fact on her own. He simply could not be the one responsible for crushing her hopes so, until she accepted reality, he would do whatever he could to ease her pain.

He prepared the lethal weapon in secret, though, for he knew it would be necessary to save lives, maybe even Helen's own. It would be ready for her as soon as she asked for it, not a moment before. Additionally, he had a selfish reason for creating the weapon: he was scared. He had faced powerful Abnormals in the past but none that were so hell-bent on destruction or nearly so dangerous. When he had battled the consciousness that inhabited Ashley's body in the corridor, it chilled him- literally made him shiver- to see himself reflected in such a dangerous being with no effective free will. It was harder, even, than seeing his brainless vampiric creations. The brain was his greatest asset and the reason his ancestors had been so powerful, so crucial to society's development. It terrified him to consider living his life as someone else's tool. Though it had delighted him to discover that he had the power to resurrect deceased humans as vampires, it disturbed him greatly. They were mindless drones, incapable of thought or of independent action. While it was, admittedly, useful to have an army of supernatural undead at his disposal, willing and able to do whatever he requested, it simply was not what he desired; he wouldn't wish that fate on anyone. He would rather effectively be responsible for Ashley's death than see Helen forced to watch her daughter live her life as a shell, a mere weapon of destruction in someone else's quest for power. It would destroy her, and _that_ was something he simply could not be responsible for.

He knew that Helen would, eventually, be forced to admit that Ashley was gone. The destructive, demonic creature that had inhabited her body had to be stopped. He firmly believed, without question, that Helen would do what needed to be done, no matter the cost, in order to save her friends and what was left of her family, maybe even the world. Until then, Nikola would be there for her, quietly working in his shadowed laboratory, entirely willing to follow her- if need be- to the literal end of the world.


	10. Part 10

Though the veranda was beautiful- surrounded by a translucent sapphire ocean- and the salty breeze was cool and refreshing, Nikola Tesla was not in the best of moods. He stood with his arms crossed, leaning casually against a pillar, contemplating where he had gone wrong. Patience was not one of his virtues, yet he had waited, much like a needy, obedient puppy, for Helen Magnus to trust in him, to let him comfort her after her daughter's death.

She had done just as he knew she would; she had, as usual, sacrificed her own personal happiness in order to "save the world" or some such nonsense. When would the woman see that she deserved to be happy as much as- if not more than- the next person? In the end he had grown weary of her refusal to confide in him and had picked up and run, true to his nature. They truly were meant for one other, each as frustrating and as stubborn as the other.

What had Helen done to him? What spell had she cast upon him that had him acting like a sullen, lovesick teenager? He, of all people, should know better. His heart was buried under layer upon layer of protective shielding. Hell, his heart was more heavily guarded than any prison fortress. Somehow he had survived sixty years without Helen Magnus, and yet here he was, barely able to go sixty minutes without thinking about her. Seeing her again, so independent and so commanding, had more than resurrected old feelings; it had uncovered buried feelings he hadn't even known he possessed. He would not have dreamed himself capable of pining over anyone, much less a woman who had rejected him on several occasions. Oh, but he knew Helen's modus operandi as well as his own. She just needed a little push; if he could get her attention somehow, she would come running to him.

And that's when it had hit him. He was a genius, after all. He had decided that he would use his intellect and his charm to win Helen back. This time, it was bound to work. He had figured out all of the details, down to the letter, played the scenarios out in his head again and again. He would _finally_, after all of these years, rebuild his race _and_ claim Helen's heart.

And so far, judging by the early stages of his plan, everything was coming along swimmingly. But then why did he feel so dissatisfied? Perhaps it was because some part of him knew, deep down, that his plan could still go horribly, horribly wrong. He was not generally an insecure man. In fact, the arrogant, narcissistic side of him made a habit of regularly squelching any protests from the apprehensive side. This had the effect of making Nikola seem entirely self-absorbed and reckless, something that, he hated to admit, might not be too far from the truth. So what better cover could he have than one which made him appear generous and self-sacrificing? His "Casa de la Nueva Vida" was the perfect plan, and his patented Slow-Release Vamp Formula was a guaranteed success (though clever names might not exactly be his forte).

In thirty years he would have his own personal vampire army, and this time it would be an intelligent one. Thirty years to scheme and plan, plenty of time to prepare to take his place as King of the Vampires. These spoiled, rich brats might not be vampire material yet, but give them three decades and they'd be ready. Of course, since his, or rather "Heinrich Baumschlager's," formula was designed to activate slowly, his residents would initially be too weak to try to overthrow his reign. By the time they were strong enough, it would be too late; they would already respect and even worship him. He was their Savior, after all, rescuing their poor souls from dead-end lives of drug abuse and dependency. They would be immortals, blessed with the rare knowledge of thousands of years of brilliant scientific accomplishments. And he would be their Creator.

It was an ingenious plan, inspired really. It had come to him quite suddenly, actually, surprising even him. Rich parents would pay for nearly anything to feel like they were doing everything they could to help their children. Call it survival instincts perhaps, or maybe even guilt. Whatever you chose to call it, it amounted to the same thing: he was being paid a substantial amount of money to turn these kids into the greatest race in the universe. Not that he cared about the money, mind you, though it certainly did sweeten the pot, fueling his taste for expensive wines and finely tailored suits.

It was a lucky coincidence that the serum he had been injecting into his human guinea pigs had the side effect of curing drug dependency. He had been practicing what he would tell the irate parents when they discovered that their child's expensive Spring Break at his Mexican clinic had been all for naught, but that had, obviously, proved unnecessary. Word of his successful clinic was spreading like wildfire. Drugged-out trust fund teens were being shipped to him by the dozen, all returned to their doting parents, clean as a whistle inside of a week. "Heinrich's" _patients_ were injected with what they thought was naltrexone- to help with their withdrawal symptoms- but was actually a serum made directly from Nikola's DNA, comparable to the source blood. It was designed to gradually bond to his patients' genetic material, slowly integrating into their DNA. Once thirty years had transpired, the added DNA would activate, coding for proteins that were singularly remarkable. The process, similar to gene splicing, was entirely chemical; the patient need never know what was happening until it was complete.

Once the procedure had begun, Helen would no longer need convincing that resurrecting the _sanguine vampiri_ was a good idea. She had declined his request for help with making his "mini-me" army more intelligent, but she would have no reason to reject him when he offered to make her his queen. Helen would not even need his gene therapy; she was already intelligent and powerful- and immortal- enough to rule by his side.

Finally, Nikola smiled hesitantly. After many weeks of brooding, things were starting to look up for him. Now, if only he could shake the strange and wholly unfamiliar feeling that something terrible was about to happen.


	11. Part 11

Part 11

Nikola Tesla did not handle disappointment well. Any little nuisance or snag in his plans would have him growling in disgust. Admittedly, he _might _have overreacted just a _little _when he had snarled at Helen Magnus and her band of miscreants, but without their meddling he would still be magnificent, still be king. Now, he was just… _ordinary_. The word left an acrid taste in his mouth, making him feel physically ill.

He fancied he could imagine what an amputee felt like, their phantom limb haunting them, tingling almost tantalizingly. Those pompous, prep-school morons might as well have ripped his heart out, so crushing was the ache that wrapped his lungs in an iron vice. He struggled to breathe, one hand supporting him on the Sanctuary wall, the other clutching his chest fiercely. He felt hollow, empty, similar to when that maniac Druitt had punched his fist clean through Nikola's abdomen, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. But mere injuries he could recover from. This was permanent.

The small part of his brain that wasn't still reeling from shock registered that he was supposed to be in the lab, figuring out a way to de-vamp that insolent, obnoxious drama queen. But at the moment he had more pressing, self-pitying matters to attend to. He was in a daze, oblivious to everything around him; it made no difference which hallway of the Sanctuary he was in, as long as he was alone. He _almost_ wished Helen was there once more to attempt to console him as she had in the apartment where "the incident" had occurred. He remembered the feel of her soft, warm hand on his shoulder, the way he very nearly closed his eyes and leaned into her embrace. But the look of pity on her face had been too much for him to bear. He had snapped at her and angrily pushed her away. Wasn't it bad enough that he was human again? Helen's pity- though a step above her hatred and distrust- was _not_ an acceptable substitute for her love.

Nikola's brain tried to tell his legs to keep walking down the hall- anything to keep moving- but they did not want to seem to listen. His knees started to buckle and his legs threatened to fold; he had no choice but to slide slowly down the wall, knees pulled up tightly to his chest. He sat there with his head on his knees, hands gripped fiercely in his hair, shaking slightly with barely controlled fury and disgust.

He had no idea what his next move would be. He simply could not settle for being unspectacular. Deep down he knew that there was no way Nikola Tesla could ever be truly ordinary, but his normally super-intelligent brain seemed to be lagging behind, only serving to increase his worry and fear.

That was the crux of the matter: when it came down to it, Nikola was afraid, utterly _terrified_, an emotion he was not entirely familiar with. What good was fear to an immortal, anyway? But humans… they were so fragile, so delicate. Damaged skin took far too long to heal, organs failed, airborne pathogens destroyed healthy cells, the list of frailties went on and on. The mere thought was horrifying. But the thing that scared him the most, even more than a thousand painful and humiliating deaths, was the thought of dying _alone_, all his contributions forgotten like so much useless garbage. He had essentially experienced that once before and had no desire to do so again, even if it _had_ been a fake death the first time.

Now he had to be _careful_, a word he loathed. No more reckless stunts or impulsive decisions but, more importantly, no showing off for Helen. "Showing off" sounded so vulgar and juvenile, but he would admit that it was accurate. How would he get Helen's attention now?

_No_, he amended. He _had_ Helen's attention but he wasn't satisfied. He winced and shuddered as he recalled the pitying look on her face and the sheer desperation of his own horrified face reflected in her slightly moist eyes.

He raised his head and pushed himself upward, leaning against the wall and staggering slightly as he propelled himself toward one of the Sanctuary's many bathrooms. He wasn't quite sure how he managed to get there in his dazed condition, operating under sheer instinct. Leaning heavily against the sink on shaking arms, he reluctantly looked up to gaze upon his new mortal visage. He did not particularly like what he saw.

His skin looked slack, his face pale and wan. His hair hung limply in his face, its usual luster completely absent. Eyes- normally shining with his trademark mischievous glint- were dead and flat, totally devoid of any emotion, save desperation. He looked ill and… _old_, a word that he assumed had been permanently eliminated from his vocabulary.

This whole _mortal_ thing was going to take a lot of getting used to.

He turned on the tap and splashed a bit of water on his face, wincing slightly at the chill. He quickly massaged his temples and passed a shaking hand over his bloodless features, preparing to report to the lab as he had been ordered to do. Just as he was about to turn the door handle he stopped cold, a horrific thought striking him. He would grow older- painfully, embarrassingly, _pitifully_ older- but his Helen would stay the same.

Even rigging up a device like Watson's to keep him from aging seemed hopeless. He had witnessed firsthand that mechanisms fail, only serving to prolong the inevitable agonizing death. He would be lying on his deathbed, feeble and decrepit, while Helen remained as beautiful and youthful as ever. His body would betray him which seemed particularly unfair since even Druitt's would retain its youth. It finally seemed as if the "old boy" had won, after all. He imagined Druitt standing by Helen's side over the years, laughing at the aged Nikola… assuming that Druitt's questionable mental faculties would still be intact.

Nikola forced himself to dispel his morbid thoughts, pushing his depression to the back of his mind. Even without immortality or superhuman strength, he was still an incredible genius. He would have to tryto find a solution, no matter the consequences. Perhaps a trip to a secret Cabal facility was in order. The plethora of dodgy "scientists" had been tailing him for years. They must have made some discoveries that could prove useful. Of course, there was no precedent for revamping de-vamped DNA. He very nearly laughed at that. He _was_ still unique, after all.

Finally catching his breath, Nikola rubbed at the deep ache that was still gnawing at his chest, steeling himself to perform his last procedure as Heinrich Baumschlager. He grinned lopsidedly in spite of himself; it was about time for him to exact revenge on his prissy patient and he would be damned if he wasn't going to enjoy it.


	12. Part 12

The room was as silent as it was dark, the tiny, empty sound of slightly erratic breaths echoing almost hollowly before fading to nothing. Perched upon the settee, Nikola Tesla sat mutely, willing his heart to stop pounding and his breathing to even out. He felt uncharacteristically foolish and childlike, arms wrapped around knees drawn up to his chest, eyes staring straight ahead. He was so still that a passerby might have mistaken him for a statue, but his brain had never before fired so quickly.

So much had transpired in the past day- a whirlwind of activities and emotions- that his mind was having trouble processing it all. Or was that yet another side effect of the De-vamper? It was difficult to say.

He had been so frustrated and despondent, taking his anger out on the attention-seeking primadonna strapped to a chair in his- or rather Helen's- lab. She had tried all the usual tricks: coercing, wheedling, begging, even flirting to get her way, but she had been wasting her breath. As if he would even be wasting his time with the likes of her if it hadn't been for Helen. He had finally, scientific mastermind that he was, devised a way for _her_ to power the De-vamper herself, since he could no longer do it. It seemed the perfect way to end the saga, his magnum opus. Plus, he had felt a surge of pleasure at the prospect of that retribution. Her little friends had destroyed his life, and he would get the satisfaction of watching her devastate her own.

He had rigged some of the Sanctuary's med-lab wiring to absorb the electric shock of a vampire, channeling the energy through the De-vamper and back into the insolent youth. It had caused the lights across the entire Sanctuary to flicker and dim, but it had been a small price to pay to keep the girl from torturing him any longer. During the procedure he had almost fancied he felt a tiny jolt of electricity run through him, though the brief instant of hopefulness turned to revulsion when he realized he had been mistaken, too caught up in the moment to think clearly.

Once he had done his duty, he had trudged, exhausted and depressed, towards his temporary quarters, lost in thought. The _only_ positive effect of the whole disastrous situation was that it had allowed him to test Helen's devotion to him. He knew that nostalgia was merely an excuse, her very own failsafe in case suspicions arose concerning her feelings for him. On several occasions he had spotted her- when she assumed that everyone else was occupied- staring raptly at her computer screen, studying his DNA. She had looked so young and vulnerable, delicately nibbling on a fingernail or absently twirling a strand of hair, murmuring almost silently to herself about ways to restore his vampiric genes. Her dedication was touching and yet it had saddened him when he saw the desperation in her eyes.

He had almost reached his interim accommodations when he noticed Helen in her sitting room, her laptop and textbooks conspicuously absent. On the table in front of her sat a bottle of white wine and two crystal glasses on a round metal tray. Was she expecting company or had she been waiting for him? He had wearily plodded into the room and, reassured by the unexpected look of delight that briefly flitted across her irises, took a seat next to her on the sofa.

She had been so open and honest with him, a refreshing change of pace after all her secrecy and denial. Her blunt admission that she had tried all she could to return him to his vampiric state had astonished and delighted him. At one point he had been sure she was about to place a comforting hand on his shoulder and draw him into an embrace. As much as he longed for that, he had panicked, taking a long sip of wine and averting his eyes. She had seemed to come back to herself, blinking as if in surprise before lowering her hand.

He recalled feeling rather warm after the draught of wine, tingling slightly. He had assumed it was simply the normal effect of alcohol on a _mortal_ being who had not consumed it in over a century. But when he went to place his glass on the coffee table, the warm tingling increased, almost mounting to a burning sensation. His brow had furrowed in confusion as the metal tray on the table came into contact with the back of his hand. Had it just moved of its own accord? Perhaps the alcohol had been too much for his already taxed and slightly addled brain cells. Curiosity, as it always did, had bested trepidation and he tentatively raised a trembling hand over the smooth metal object. His eyes widened in shock as the platter had leapt up to his outstretched palm, and a huge, lopsided grin had spread over his face. Helen had looked just as surprised and very nearly as pleased as he had, and he smirked slightly at her attempts to disguise her joy with a roll of her eyes.

Now, as he sat alone in the sitting room, Helen having long since retired to her bedroom for the evening, he wondered what he would do next. He couldn't impose on Helen any longer. He would only stay if she asked him too, and they both knew she was far too proud- and too unsure- for that. Reluctantly, he even admitted that she needed time to sort out her feelings for John before he could expect her to let him in. And he needed time as well, time to discover what new abilities he possessed.

The old Nikola would have silently slipped out of the Sanctuary like a thief in the night, but now he imagined he could feel a new sense of purpose and dignity. He could not be expected to change overnight, but a change clearly _had_ occurred in him and it fell to him to determine how the new Nikola would act.

Since he was, once again, mortal he would have to exercise a bit more caution, acting sensibly instead of impetuously. This time he would do the shrewd thing and bid Helen _adieu _instead of vanishing, fading away into the shadows like some kind of twisted illusionist as he had so many times before.


	13. Epilogue

Nikola Tesla stood awkwardly in the Sanctuary foyer, unsure of how to behave. Manners and customs had always eluded him, yet he strangely felt the need to give Helen some semblance of the proper gentlemen she had always wanted. He grimaced slightly, raising his hand as if to grasp hers. Helen simply stood opposite him, arms crossed, watching his display with a strange emotion in her eyes. Then, when he had nearly begun to squirm uncomfortably, she let out a slight laugh and swept him into an embrace. His eyes widened and he stood as stiff as a board, too shocked to even breathe. Finally, he gently- albeit somewhat awkwardly- put his arms around Helen's shoulders and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. As he released her, turned, and prepared to leave the Sanctuary, he smiled slightly to himself. Helen Magnus had, after all those years, truly been worth the wait.

* * *

**I would like to take a moment to thank all of you who have, thus far, read (and especially reviewed) this story!! It was truly you who turned this bumbling little one-shot into the longest fanfiction I have written to this day. I sincerely loved writing it- every single minute of the process- and I hope you enjoyed reading. You are all amazing, and I am eternally grateful!**


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